Which toppings you like, sir?


Now and again, you can’t beat a nice greasy kebab on the way home from the pub. Once, I was stood in a crowed shop, waiting my turn when a very drunk and aggressive looking man stumbled through the doorway. He stared everyone straight in the eye and then marched to the front of the queue, shouting, “Anyone here got a problem?”. Of course the others in the queue all promptly looked at their shoes, avoiding any eye contact. The man swayed unsteadily as his kebab was being prepared. “Plenty of chilli sauce mate,” he cried as the server hacked away at the revolving elephant leg behind the counter, “And make it to eat now.”. Of course the man refused to pay as he grabbed his kebab over the counter and staggered towards the door. In his state of drunkenness, he tripped on the doorstep and swallow-dived onto the pavement, limbs flailing, kebab arcing through the night sky. He staggered to his knees and to the disgust of the kebab shop onlookers, started to scrape the contents back in to his pitta bread. Unfortunately, the kebab meat and salad was now joined by various detritus from the pavement. Looks turned to horror, then shrieks and retching as our drunken hero picked out cigarette butts, sweet wrappers, dust and dirt from his food and then stood bolt upright as it transpired that a passing dog owner had not been responsible with his pooch and what was once the contents of Fido was now the contents of our man’s kebab. On spotting the cigar-shaped object half-buried in salad, his eyes narrowed and face red with rage, the drunken psycho loomed back large into the doorway to the shop and bellowed, “OI MEHMET! I NEVER ORDERED A SHISH KOFTE!!!!!”

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